


thought it was a false alarm

by Menacherie



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cisswap, F/F, cis swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menacherie/pseuds/Menacherie
Summary: Her hair is like fire spread across Nayla’s world, seared into her mind when she closes her eyes. Nayla’s fingers itch as if they too want to be burned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Shu for a great beta! :D

Her hair is like fire spread across Nayla’s world, seared into her mind when she closes her eyes. Nayla’s fingers itch as if they too want to be burned. 

 

\--

 

Leksa’s eyes are cold, like the ice, as she swears under her breath. Nayla keeps her head down when she’s off the ice, but Leksa’s eyes rake over everyone, making them feel seen to their core. Nayla has seen NHL prospects falter when they catch her gaze. Leksa is ice. 

 

“We will do it one day,” Leksa promises, gloves tightening on a stick as she swats the puck into the net. 

 

“Mmm,” Nayla is non-committal. Her parents will drag her home to Russia eventually, when the dream wears thin, or when she gets injured.

 

“We will,” Leksa breathes out, her breath clouding up the air around them. “Nayla _we will_ ,” she says, and Nayla finally looks into her eyes. 

 

Like the others, Nayla is always shaken to the core when she looks into Leksa’s eyes. 

 

“Yeah,” she finds herself agreeing. Leksa shoots her a smile, and Nayla feels like the net must, shaken and wobbly. 

 

\--

 

Her fingers are deceptively delicate. Nayla wonders about those who look at her, what do they think when they see this girl? Do they see what Nayla sees? Do they see the calluses, the way her hands hover over her pockets? Do they look up to shoulders that are burdened with the weight of the world?

 

\--

 

Nayla’s mother calls every night. “Do you not want to come home yet?” she asks. 

 

Nayla will sigh, close her eyes and think of Leksa, think of Anna, think of the people surrounding her. But most of all she thinks of hockey. “No, not yet,” she will say, and they will move on to better things. 

 

\--

She has freckles dotting her shoulders, interspersed between the freckles is the dotted white of forgotten road rash. She never wears anything sleeveless, except to bed, shoulders bare and sleepy eyes. 

 

\--

 

Anna very carefully picks out Leksa and Nayla’s dresses and does their makeup for them. The lipstick feels waxy against her lips. Nayla closes her eyes and does not think about what being drafted first would mean. 

 

Her parents fly in for the occasion. Nayla’s mother has to reapply her mascara when they come out of Anna’s room. 

 

“You are so beautiful,” her mother whispers into her ear when they hug. Nayla tightens her hold on her mother, letting herself feel childish for another moment. 

 

\--

 

Her eyes lure you in with their warmth. Nayla almost misses the pure determination in them. Her gaze is never unsettling, never puts ice in Nayla’s veins. Instead her gaze warms Nayla from the inside, starting in her heart and making her fingers feel warm even in the frozen wasteland. 

 

\--

 

“Oiler’s proudly select with the first pick Nayla Yakupova!” 

 

Nayla sits in stillness, without knowing, her body leans over to hug her father, her mother. Leksa and Anna are pulling her in for a hug. 

 

Nayla comes back to herself and sucks in a deep breath. She almost tumbles down the stairs. The eyes of the world are on her now, she can not mess up. She takes another deep breath. 

 

\--

 

She is warm sturdy boots in a thick knit sweater. She is an unapologetic starbucks addict hiding behind protein smoothies and kale salads. She is bitten nails and snapchat and everything all bundled up into one person. Laughter at the edge of her throat, ready to fall forwards at a moment’s notice. 

 

\--

 

Nayla is lit from within. Her face aches from all the smiling. The boys welcome her with open arms and she is free-falling. 

 

The city _loves_ her and she wants to be its hero.

 

The thing about being on the top of the world is that there is no where to go but back to the ground. 

 

She wakes up most nights gasping for air, frozen toes, frozen fingers, ice in her veins. 

 

The boys still welcome her with open arms, but their smiles never reach their eyes and their words fall hollow against her ears. 

 

She thinks back to calling her mother. “Do you want to come home yet?” 

 

“I don’t know,” she whispers into the dark of her bedroom. 

 

\--

 

She is sturdy and solid in a way that Nayla never feels she will be. She is a voice that will always be heard. 

 

\--

 

Coaches come, coaches go. Teammates come, teammates go. 

 

Everyone _leaves_. 

 

Each loss hurts. Each loss makes everything a little dimmer. The boys stop their ice cream dates. She stops going out with the team after they win, after they lose. 

 

\--

 

She braids her hair before every game and whispers something to herself that Nayla can not hear. Nayla doesn’t try to listen. Nayla just drinks her blue gatorade and tapes her stick and does not think about things gone wrong. 

 

\--

 

Nayla meets Connie and thinks she is shy. Her eyes are large, taking everything in, but she is silent, and Nayla thinks this is the way she will always be. 

 

Nayla should know better, knows the way that people change on the ice. She remembers the way Leksa’s eyes changed to unforgiving lasers on the ice. 

 

“Let’s go get coffee,” Connie says, stepping in close. Nayla doesn’t move, feels paralyzed at the determination in Connie’s eyes and feels a sinking stone settle in her stomach. 

 

\--

 

She is the feeling of friendship being shared, popcorn between friends, arguing over how to split a meal with the rest of the team. She is conversation flowing easily over those who have known each other too long. 

 

\--

 

Leksa and Nayla rarely get to play against each other anymore. “They waste your abilities,” Leksa snarls over the phone. Nayla wonders when she stopped caring. 

 

“Do you like playing center?” Nayla asks. She avoids talking about Brendan.

 

“Stop trying to distract me,” Leksa says, and then sighs. “Sorry,” she says a few moments later.

 

“Me too,” Nayla says, and looks over at Connie, curled up under a blanket. A Lifetime movie is on, and Taylor and Ebs are bickering over the correct cheese to noodle ratio in the kitchen. 

 

“Really Connie?” Nuge asks when he walks through the living room. Connie hums at him and waves him out of the way of the television. He laughs. 

 

“Are you at Taylor’s?” Leksa asks quietly. 

 

“Mmhmm,” Nayla says. 

 

Connie glances over at her and gives Nayla a smile. Nayla smiles back. The stone in her stomach sinks into her skin. 

 

\--

 

She is whispered confessions in a dark hotel room. She is shared toothpaste and splitting phone chargers and reruns of SVU past their bedtime. She is vending machines and Lifetime movies. 

 

\--

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Connie says as they stumble into their hotel room in Los Angeles.

 

“Me?” Nayla asks, dropping her duffel bag to the floor and flopping in the first bed. 

 

“I think it would have been lonely, without you,” Connie admits.

 

There is a lump in Nayla’s throat. “Nah,” Nayla croaks, and then clears her throat. “No, you would have managed.” 

 

“Yeah, I don’t have to manage though, you’re here, so thanks.” Connie tells her. “I’m gonna go take a bath,” she says waving her bath kit around. 

 

Nayla nods, and does not say anything, because her lack of breath would give her away. 

 

She crawls under the covers and does not look at Connie’s bare shoulders when Connie comes out of the bathroom.

 

\--

 

She is quiet nights in, chocolate staining their lips, and skype sessions with friends across the league. 

 

\--

 

“I’m just saying, Goon is great and all, but I want a movie about Manon,” Connie mumbles against Nayla’s shoulder, voice rough with exhaustion. “I want a real honest to god movie about female goalies,” she says. Nayla nods, but the rest of her body is paralyzed. 

 

“That would be hella cool,” Taylor agrees, just as sleepy.

 

Nuge and Jordan have fallen asleep against Taylor’s shoulder. Nayla wasn’t sure how three hockey players could settle on such a small couch but they manage. Connie and Nayla are squished in the recliner and Nayla’s skin feels hot to the touch. It feels like an out of body experience. 

 

The next thing she knows, Nayla wakes up with Connie’s legs intertwined with hers. Someone laid a blanket over them. She wishes that they had woken her up instead. She doesn’t want to know what Connie’s breath gusting over her neck feels like. Or how it feels to have Connie’s hands on her skin. 

 

She doesn’t want to know, but now she can’t forget.

 

\--

 

She is youth, in all its glory. She is the one that points out the joy in everyday life. 

 

\--

 

“Take a snap for Dylan and Mitchie with me,” Connie says on the plane. 

 

“Puppy filter,” Nayla says, and Connie frowns at her. 

 

“Awwww, c’mon!” Connie says, fluttering her eyelashes at Nayla. “Your face for once, it’s just Dyl and Mitchie, they’re both bigger dorks than you I swear,” Connie says. 

 

Nayla grins down at Connie and she snaps the picture. “Connie!” she gasps, grabbing at the phone. 

 

“SENT!” Connie yelps out, waking up half the plane by the amount of grumbles. Nayla’s face is burning as she tries to grab at Connie’s phone. 

 

“Youth,” Taylor grumbles from behind them with a sniffle. 

 

Connie and Nayla look at each other and scoff. 

 

\--

 

She is hot baths after a long game and bath bombs in hotels. She is snoring on the plane, always at a window seat, with Nayla at her side. 

 

\--

 

“It’s fucked for weeks,” Connie whispers over the phone. 

 

Nayla squeezes her eyes shut. “Shit,” she whispers, the curse lingering in the air.

 

“It’s not too bad,” Connie tries saying, but her voice warbles. 

 

“I’ll score for you,” Nayla says, her voice low and hoarse. She, she doesn’t know how but she knows she will. She has to. 

 

Connie lets out a watery laugh, thinner and smaller than usual and Nayla’s breath catches at the back of her throat. “I’m gonna tear it up out there, watch,” Nayla promises.

 

\--

 

She is horrible tv, and scuffed up romance books tucked into her duffel bag. She is pop music blaring out of her headphones and horrible dancing. 

 

\--

 

“I thought you said you were gonna score for me,” Connie says, her good hand fluttering all over Nayla, like she’s not sure Nayla is alright or not. “Not get injured,” her hand finally settles on Nayla’s shoulder. 

 

“It’s not like I meant to,” Nayla says mulishly. The ankle in her boot aches and Connie sighs, gently tugging on her arm. 

 

“Aren’t we a pair,” Connie says when they’re both settled on the boys’ couch. 

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t score for you,” Nayla blurts out. 

 

Connie quickly looks over at her and Nayla feels small. “Don’t beat yourself up over this,” Connie says, the determination in her gaze filling Nayla with worth. Nayla nods, and Connie stares at her, searching for something. She must find it because she nods and turns the TV on. 

 

“We’re watching HGTV, I’ve got a bunch of Property Brothers recorded that I need to get rid of before Taylor re-records other stuff over it. Like, Real Housewives or something,” Connie says. 

 

“Kay,” Nayla says, and settles into the couch a little better. Connie loves HGTV more than a normal person, so she knows she’ll be here a while. 

 

Later, Nayla wakes up with Connie’s fingers tangled in her hair, blanket settled over the both of them and Property Brothers still playing in the background. Connie must feel her stir because the fingers in her hair start rubbing her temple. “Shhh,” Connie whispers, and Nayla closes her eyes. 

 

\--

 

She is life itself, bringing sunshine into Edmonton. Nayla can never keep a frown on for long around her. 

 

\--

 

They get back and Nayla gets demoted to third line. The back of her throat sours, but she nods and puts her head down. She’s got work to do.

 

Connie scowls when they don’t put them back on the same line. “It’s not the same,” she says late at night in the darkness of the hotel room. 

 

“You’ll get used to it,” Nayla whispers. 

 

“I’d rather not,” Connie says, and Nayla is struck by how young Connie really is. 

 

“We don’t always get what we want,” Nayla whispers. 

 

Connie scoffs and sits up, pushing her waves of hair out of her face. “We’re girls in the NHL, Nayla. If we didn’t get what we wanted we wouldn’t be here.” 

 

Nayla squeezes her eyes shut. “We don’t always get what we want,” she repeats. 

 

Connie stares at her, and Nayla can feel the gaze through her closed eyes. 

 

“You remind me of Leksa,” Nayla whispers, before her teeth can catch the words and keep them close. 

 

“Galchenyuk?” Connie asks, and Nayla finally opens her eyes. 

 

“You have the same eyes,” Nayla explains. 

 

Connie snorts and shakes her head. “Aren’t her eyes blue?” 

 

“You’re both so stubborn,” Nayla whispers, closing her eyes again. “Her eyes were like ice, yours are like, like fire.”

 

Connie falls silent, and Nayla’s breath catches. “Never-” she starts to say.

 

“You can get what you want,” Connie says, voice determined. Nayla’s bed dips and her eyes snap open. Connie’s gaze is determined and Nayla’s body is on _fire_.

 

“I don’t,” Nayla whispers, staring into Connie’s eyes. 

 

“You do,” Connie says, her face fierce. 

 

“Connie,” Nayla breathes out, and takes her life in her own hands for once. Connie leans into Nayla, and Nayla, she’s floating. 

 

“Connie,” Nayla whispers, “Connie, Connie,” she repeats. 

 

“Nayla,” Connie mumbles against Nayla’s lips, and they’re still kissing, still breathing each other in and Nayla doesn’t ever want to stop. Nayla tumbles back into her pillows and Connie follows. Her long hair frames their faces, leaving them in their own little world. 

 

\--

 

She is determination in the face of Nayla’s what-ifs. She is Nayla’s rock in any storm. 

 

She is Connie McDavid-Yakupova.


End file.
